


What Happens Next

by roxyeisen



Series: What Happens Next [1]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 12:25:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14112297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxyeisen/pseuds/roxyeisen
Summary: William and Mulder have a conversation. Continuation of my previous story “Fathers,” in William’s perspective. You may want to start there.*I will probably continue this as a series every now and then, until I’m healed from the wounds that finale inflicted. Hopefully it will provide healing for others as well. Feel free to comment if you need to say something or you want me to explore something specific within the story.





	What Happens Next

_Be peaceful, be courteous, obey the law, respect everyone; but if someone puts his hand on you, send him to the cemetery._

That's a Malcolm X quote. I used to be inspired by it. My parents disagreed with it, for sure. They wanted me to learn to turn the other cheek. And now I'm wondering if X ever actually sent someone to the cemetery. Because I have, and I never counted on the regret. I know I didn't really have a choice in most cases. If I have a choice, I usually try not to hurt people. But what kind of seventeen-year-old gets himself in a place where he has to end people?

I'm staring at their house. My parents. Or not my parents. Whatever. I haven’t had the courage to go up to the door and knock. But I’ve spent a lot of time stalking them. 

I guess I'll just say _them_ because I don’t know what else to call them now. When I was in the harbor with a bullet in my head, I heard their minds. The FBI agents, I mean. I heard their entire conversation. So now I’m not their son? I’m just the result of some experiment? My mother doesn’t care about me anymore?

I’ve always been good at reading thoughts, but not emotions. I heard what they said, but I don’t know how to put it into context. How can they be sure I’m theirs one minute and then the next they just “let me go” in the harbor with Smoking Dude?

I’m kind of angry. No, I’m really angry. More angry than I was before. Angrier than I was at the Smoking Dude. At least he told me his expectations. I have no idea what kind of game these two are playing.

I've made a sort of shelter in the woods behind their house. I’ve been trying to avoid making a fire, but it’s pretty cold. So I started a little one this evening. I meant to put it out before they got home, but I guess I fell asleep and lost track of time. I put it out as soon as I wake up.

I think I’m in the clear after a couple hours. I watch them through binoculars. They eat dinner. Or rather, they sit at the table and push food around on their plates without saying a word. Then she goes upstairs and turns the light off. He sits on the couch watching TV for a while, but then he gets up and looks out the back door. It feels like he is looking right at me.

I know I should run. But I can’t. I’m so tired of running. I just stay in my spot with my jacket pulled around me as tightly as it’ll go and wait. I hear his mind before I see him step into the clearing. He’s carrying a couple firewood logs. Probably from his woodpile in the back of the house. He tosses them on to the pitiful little ash pile. 

“Hey.” He sits down next to me. He shivers as he covers the logs with twigs and brush and then carefully lights it. He patiently blows on it and waits while a flame grows. “I guess you learn a thing or two living out here for so long.”

I shrug. I don’t feel like talking. 

He has a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. He tosses me a wool blanket, a water bottle and a bag of snacks, then he’s quiet for a time. I have to admit to myself that I like the way he handles stuff. He doesn’t get emotional or excited. He doesn’t demand things. He just waits and observes. As calm as he appears, I can feel his mind going a million miles an hour.

“Do you want me to call you Jackson or William?” He finally looks up at me. His smile is easy, but he’s hiding some deeper emotions.

“Why’d she call me William?” I don’t know what makes me ask. But I’m curious.

He nods, as if the question was expected. “It was after my father.”

“Smoking Dude?”

He looks confused for a second, but then shakes his head. “He may have been my biological father because he had an affair with my mom, but that didn’t make him my father. My father’s name was William Mulder.”

“Was he a good guy?”

He considers the question. “He was flawed. But yeah, he was a good guy.”

He pulls a medical kit from the bag. "Your head is still bleeding. Does it hurt?"

I reach up to feel the hole in my head. It's healing quickly, like my wounds always do. But I take the medical kit, anyway, because suddenly I'm touched by his gesture. "I have a killer headache."

"I'll get some ibuprofen from the house. Leave it on the back porch."

“Thanks." I feel weird. Conflicted. "So, she named me after your father?” I nod toward the house.

He nods. “Her father and brother were William as well, but she said it was for my father.”

“Why?”

He twists his mouth and stares up at the night sky full of stars. Like he’s looking for their faces up there – all these departed loved ones. “I think it was because she wanted you to have a connection to me.”

“Why?” I hear the disillusionment in my voice. “What does it matter now? I’m not your son.”

He makes a face like he’s in pain for a second. Then he pulls it back and shrugs. He's quiet for a long time, like he doesn't know how to answer my question. Maybe it's too hard for him to think about it. Finally, he sighs. “Your mother is hurting. I hate seeing her hurt. She’s had way too much pain for one lifetime.”

I don’t want his words to affect me. I’d rather just be mad at them. Blame them. I don’t want to know that she’s as hurt and angry as I am. I frown and toss the trash from my meal in the fire. I wrap the blanket around me and enjoy the feeling of warmth I haven’t known in a while. “She’s not the only one.”

He nods slowly, watching me. “I can understand that. You’ve been through a lot. I know you must feel like you’re on your own. Like nobody can understand.”

My eyes tear up at his words. I didn’t realize how much I needed someone to acknowledge my pain. I clear my throat and stare hard at the fire. I don’t speak.

“So you heard what she said on the dock?” He pokes the fire with a stick. "How?"

I shrug. “I can read minds. I was under the water, but I could hear the gist of what you were saying. She thinks I was just a mistake. An experiment. No relation to you or her. It was a good thing I died – or so you thought.”

He leans closer. Grabs my arm. “Neither of us think that. Your mother was wounded by the lies she was told. She was afraid they were true. But she was just upset." He swallows hard, like what he's about to say is difficult for him. "Even if it turned out you weren’t my son, you are still very much hers. You have her DNA. DNA doesn’t lie.”

I don’t tell him what a relief it is to hear this confirmation. “You tested it?”

He nods. “I did. And I read the report. You are her son.”

“Then why did she say those things?”

He smiles half-heartedly. “Because she’s afraid. Because she thinks you are dead. She’s distancing herself because it hurts so much. William, I have never seen anyone love anybody else as much as your mother has loved you every moment of your life. You need to understand that.”

“Why didn’t you tell her the truth?”

He sits back and smiles into the fire. “I’ve learned by now that Scully does best when she comes to her own conclusions. She has to work it out.” He looks back at me. “It might help her to talk to you. You haven’t given her the chance to speak to you face to face.”

I instantly go on edge. I sit up, ready to bolt. Is this some sort of trap?

“Relax, son. I’m not going to force you to do anything. There’s a tent and supplies in the shed if you want to stay out here. But when you’re ready, there’s an extra bedroom upstairs. You’re welcome to it.”

“Won’t that belong to your baby?” I bring it up, and his features suddenly look vulnerable. He still can’t believe the news. I push it. “You don’t need me anymore. You’re having your own child.”

He stands. Pulls me to my feet. He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks me straight in the eye. “No matter what kind of DNA we share, hear me, William. We have thought of you as our son for your entire life. I don’t intend to stop now just because of that lying son of a bitch. You. Are. My. Son.”

He cups my cheek with his palm for a moment before he turns to go. I watch him walk back toward the house until he’s almost out of the soft glow of the fire.

"Mulder," I say to stop him. He turns around. His hands are in his pockets. He waits for me to speak.

I'm not sure I have the courage to say it until the words tumble out of my mouth. “Tell her I’m okay.”


End file.
